A Village Murder

by Frances Evesham

  Adam seemed unaware, his attention fixed, staring through the glass.

  Imogen followed his gaze.

  ‘There’s something heavy there, stopping the door from opening. A tall box, or a bag…’

  She pushed again at the door. It moved an inch.

  Adam grabbed her arm. ‘Stop,’ he said. ‘You’ll hurt your shoulder. Let me.’ He kicked, hard, and the door inched further open, the gap just wide enough to let him through.

  Imogen followed close behind.

  The bag moved, slid sideways, and collapsed on the tiled floor with a dull thud.

  She gasped. ‘It’s not a bag. It’s…’ She took a step forward, but Adam threw out his hand.

  ‘Don’t touch anything.’

  The man lay, fully clothed, slumped on the floor. His face was blank, eyes rolled back into his head until only the whites showed.

  Adam crouched low, his fingers against the neck. ‘We’re too late.’ He turned his head. ‘Don’t disturb the scene. Leave it for the police.’

  Imogen’s knuckles, pressed against her mouth in horror, muffled her voice. ‘The police?’

  Adam stood up, jabbing at his phone.

  He talked, but Imogen did not hear a word. She was deafened by the roaring in her head.

  ‘Greg,’ she muttered. ‘It’s Greg.’

  3

  Tea

  Adam mentally catalogued the scene, his senses on high alert. He’d seen many scenes of death in his thirty year police career, and he’d hoped never to see another, now he’d retired.

  The sight would be fixed in Adam’s head forever, taking its place with so many others. The orangery, crowded with plants, loomed over the slumped body, shielding it from the fading light. Adam could see no sign of a struggle, or an obvious weapon.

  Questions queued in his head. Whose body was this? Why was it here, and why today? Was this suicide, an accident, or something more sinister?

  The first was the easiest to answer. ‘Greg,’ Imogen had said. One of the guests had mentioned the name. Greg had been Imogen’s husband.

  Adam considered Greg’s clothes; that leather jacket must have been expensive once. Underneath, a smart charcoal-coloured suit and a pair of shoes, claggy from the garden’s red mud.

  Greg had come dressed for the funeral. That suggested he’d died today, but Adam knew better than to jump to conclusions. He’d wait for the post-mortem.

  But this isn’t your case, he remembered. He could leave the investigation to the Avon and Somerset police. That was why he’d moved out here; to get away from police work.

  It was impossible to switch off his instincts, though. Without moving, touching nothing, he let his gaze roam through the orangery, observing everything, determined to miss nothing. This would be his only chance.

  The sun was fading fast, but light glinted from a nearby plant pot. Adam shone his phone on the spot. A bottle stuffed by its neck into the pot.

  Champagne? Had Greg been drinking, plucking up courage to kill himself? Or maybe there were pills dissolved in the liquid?

  Too much speculation. Stick to the facts.

  A pang of guilt. He should be looking after Greg’s wife.

  Tearing his eyes away from the scene, he took a closer look at Imogen. One hand still clamped to her mouth, her cheeks paper white, she leaned against the orangery door, apparently close to collapse.

  He took her arm. ‘Come back to the hotel.’

  Emily, with an efficient air and a smart, dark grey suit, her ash-blonde hair still neat, circled the hotel lounge, switching on table lamps.

  The mourners had gone, at last.

  A young waitress, hair escaping from a bun at the back of her head, stacked debris from the wake on a trolley: used plates, smeared glasses and empty cups.

  Emily’s eyes widened as Adam and Imogen lurched into the hotel lounge through the French doors, soaking wet and shivering.

  ‘Is something wrong?’

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ Adam said. ‘The police are on their way, and no one is to leave the hotel.’

  Emily’s red-lipsticked mouth dropped open. ‘The police?’

  ‘There’s a body,’ he explained, ‘in the orangery.’

  ‘My husband,’ Imogen whispered.

  The waitress dropped a bowl of sugar. With a sharp crack, it hit the edge of a table and fractured into three pieces. Grains of sugar flew into the air and fell, shimmering, on the hotel’s best Turkish rug.

  Adam said, ‘Mrs Bishop has had a shock.’

  Emily sprang into action. She shooed the waitress towards the kitchens. ‘Fetch a dustpan, clear up the mess, and don’t say a word to anyone.’

  ‘Yes. I won’t. I mean, I will… Sorry.’

  ‘And leave the teapot.’

  Emily recovered fast, retrieved clean cups from an oak sideboard, and poured tea with well-trained composure, only trembling fingers betraying her shock. ‘Stewed, I’m afraid.’

  Adam took a cup and helped himself to two large sugars. After one sip, he winced, laid it aside and explained where they’d found the body.

  ‘We’d better get the staff and guests together. The police will want to see them.’

  Emily nodded. ‘I won’t use the fire bell. I don’t want to cause a panic.’

  Imogen sat in the hotel lounge, on a squashy sofa by the fire, sipping cold tea while the police worked methodically through the staff and guests, taking names and asking questions.

  They took pity on the young waitress, a teenager with saucer eyes, wrote down her details and sent her home as soon as possible.

  Adam grinned. The cat was out of the bag, now that the girl was released. In half an hour, word would have spread and the whole village would know Imogen Bishop’s husband had been found dead in the garden of her father’s hotel.

  He watched from the background as the police went about their business. Yellow police tape marked out the orangery and closed off the path to the car park. Light bulbs flashed and officers in protective suits moved in a practised ballet, searching for and securing evidence.

  The long, depressing evening dragged into night as officials came and went until at last, in the early hours of the next morning, an ambulance removed the body to the morgue for autopsy and the police left, tasking a single, forlorn police constable to guard the crime scene, in a garden turned to mud by the combination of April rain and police boots.

  Nothing, Adam knew, would be the same again for a long time.

  4

  Maria

  Adam scooped tinned mince into an old dish, his knees creaking. He must order dog food, or he’d be feeding this new arrival The Plough’s best steak. The dog gazed at him with open mouth, panting with excitement. It looked like he planned to stick around.

  ‘Adam, darling.’

  Adam recognised the voice and his heart missed a beat. Maria Rostropova walked through his door, smiling. He wished she wouldn’t do that. It did terrible things to his pulse rate.

  A beautiful woman like this was out of Adam’s league. He’d come to terms with that. Still, desire ambushed him every time he saw Maria. That smile, the hourglass figure, and the tip-tilted nose: perfection. Only a tiny scar running from the corner of her left eye and disappearing behind her ear spoiled the flawlessness of the exquisite face.

  Adam had worshipped this woman from the moment they met four months ago. The local orchestra and choir, a motley collection of amateur and ex-professional musicians from the surrounding villages, had been rehearsing Christmas songs in the church and they’d built up a thirst.

  ‘My good man,’ the conductor had boomed. ‘A pint each for the basses and tenors, and a glass of whatever they desire most, for our beautiful ladies.’

  Warmed by Adam’s best Hook Norton bitter, he’d taken a fancy to The Plough. ‘We’ll be back. Keep the beer on tap.’

  They’d returned often. Free drinks guaranteed impromptu choral performances for the regulars and Maria’s performance of ‘Blow the Wind Southerly’ cou
ld bring the drinkers to their feet in appreciation of her voice, by no means diminished by her personal charms.

  Today, her eyes opened wide. ‘That poor dog.’ An Eastern European lilt enhanced the husky contralto. ‘He’s so thin. He must be starving. Where did he come from?’

  ‘No idea,’ Adam confessed. ‘He’s a stray – arrived yesterday. I wedged the door open this morning, but he wouldn’t leave.’

  ‘Is he chipped?’

  ‘Can’t tell. Unless someone claims him soon, I’ll have to get the vet to run a scan. Otherwise, there’s no chance of finding the owner.’

  The dog trotted over to Maria, rubbing his head against her brightly coloured, floor length skirt. She knelt down, murmuring a stream of nonsense, like a doting aunt with a new-born baby.

  She straightened. ‘Let’s not wait. Let’s take him to the vet, now.’ She clapped her hands. ‘But first, I have a favour to ask, Mr Hennessy.’

  Why the sudden formality?

  ‘Adam.’

  ‘Of course. Such a delightful English name. I came to beg you for help, Adam. You see, as you know, I sing in our choir.’

  Adam nodded.

  ‘I also chair the committee. We plan to give a charity concert in June, and we had this wonderful idea – why not play outside, with nature all around. In a field.’

  ‘Why not?’ Adam chuckled. He could see where this was leading.

  ‘We were hoping to use the field behind the church, but there’s been a little – how shall I say – difficulty. An objection. By the farmer. Something about trampling the crops. Poof!’ Maria dismissed the farmer with a wave of the hand. ‘We have to find an alternative, and we thought of your dear little beer garden. Would it not be perfect?’ She smiled that adorable smile.

  Adam was not fooled. Maria must have singled out the beer garden the first time she saw it. ‘You’ll be very welcome.’

  ‘Adam, my darling. You are so wonderful and sweet.’

  Adam had rarely been called sweet. He rather liked it.

  ‘Now.’ She clapped her hands again. ‘Let’s visit the vet. The dog will fit easily in your car, no? Mine has only just returned from the valet, and it would be such a shame to make it all dirty again, wouldn’t it?’

  The dog had no chip. The vet shook his head. ‘He’s a stray, I’m sure,’ he decided. ‘He looks as though he’s travelled a long way. That makes me wonder…’

  ‘Wonder what?’ Adam asked.

  ‘There’s been a spate of dog thefts recently. Mostly high-end, working dogs – sheepdogs, show animals and such. Not scruffy mutts like this one.’ He scratched the dog’s chest and the animal leaned against him, hypnotised, eyes half closed in bliss. ‘They were hidden in one of the farms north of here, up Hereford way, until it closed down a few weeks ago. Someone searching for a Carpathian sheepdog found them and the police closed the place down.’

  Maria shrieked with delight. ‘I know Carpathians. They come from Romania, my home country. My uncle bred them on his farm.’

  The vet laughed. ‘I don’t fancy you’ll get your hands on that one – the owner was besotted by all accounts. Anyway, if they stole this fellow by mistake, they probably kicked him off the farm. They wouldn’t want a mutt like him.’

  Maria gasped; her hands clapped against the dog’s ears. ‘No, no. Stop saying that. You’ll upset the poor creature. Won’t he, darling?’ She kissed the top of the dog’s head.

  The vet raised an eyebrow. ‘He’s most likely been wandering ever since. He’s very young, hardly more than a puppy, and he’s come a long way, but he seems in good health. Is he eating?’

  ‘He could outdo a weightlifter,’ Adam put in.

  The vet looked at his watch. ‘I must get on, I’m afraid. You should put a collar on this chap, if you’re going to keep him, and a lead – this string won’t last long. My nurse will show you.’ He pulled out his phone to photograph the dog. ‘I’ll print this out and stick it up on the wall. It’s a long shot, though.’

  As they left, Adam had a brainwave. ‘He might not be a Carpathian, but he’s taken to you. Would you like to keep him?’

  ‘Oh, I would love to,’ Maria trilled, ‘but I’m far too busy. I could never look after him as he deserves…’

  Nice try. Adam shrugged. Maybe someone else in the village might adopt him.

  He bought a selection of collars, leads, bowls, rubber bones, beds, and dog blankets from the vet’s nurse, gasping at the range of items a single dog needed – and the price. He slipped the collar round the dog’s neck, replacing the garden twine, and attached the lead.

  ‘Looks like you’re staying with me for a while, my friend,’ he said, stroking the rough brown coat. ‘Try not to shed hair all over the car seats.’

  Back at The Plough, Maria slid from Adam’s car, wiggled her fingers, and disappeared.

  Adam heaved his new companion out of the back door, checked the lead was properly attached and retrieved the bag of canine essentials. He scratched his head. ‘After all that, I forgot to buy your food. Fancy a walk to the shop?’

  He didn’t need to ask twice. The dog hauled him at speed along the lane and around the corner to the village post office, the Hembrow Stores.

  Adam elbowed the door open and hovered. What about the dog? In or out?

  ‘Come in, come in,’ boomed Mrs Topsham, breaking into a loud belly laugh. ‘What a super dog. Bring him in, do.’ She squeezed round the counter, bounced across the room, bent over as far as her girth would allow, and threw her arms round the dog. ‘Just what you need, Mr Hennessy, in my humble opinion. A bit of company.’

  Panting with the effort, she straightened up and punched Adam heartily on the shoulder.

  ‘As I was saying to Mrs Croft, only the other day,’ she hooted, ‘you need a companion. Not good for a man, living all alone.’ She rocked with laughter. ‘I wasn’t thinking of a dog, mind you, but there aren’t many ladies to choose from, not in Lower Hembrow, are there?’ She kicked the door shut and trotted back to the counter, wheezing. ‘Not unless you count Mrs Bishop.’ One eye closed in a wink.

  Better knock that rumour on the head. He opened his mouth to protest, but Mrs Topsham was on a roll.

  ‘Not your type, I expect. A bit on the thin side, but that’s what girls are like, these days.’

  To Mrs Topsham, anyone younger than her was a girl.

  ‘Poor thing,’ she added, in a loud whisper. ‘First, her father dies and then, on the day of the funeral – the very day, would you believe,’ her voice rose to an excited squeak, ‘there’s a dead body found in the garden. Oh—’

  The door opened, halting her in mid-sentence.

  She recovered fast. ‘Oswald, what can I do for you?’

  Adam’s dog almost pulled Adam over in his haste to get to the newcomer.

  In her stage whisper, Mrs Topsham announced, ‘Oswald’s the gardener from the hotel. Bet he knows all about that body. Don’t worry,’ she put a finger to her lip. ‘He’s deaf as a post – can’t hear a word.’

  ‘Oswald and I are old friends,’ Adam announced.

  ‘Really?’ sounding disappointed. ‘Drinks in the pub, I suppose.’

  The gardener looked up. ‘What’s that you say, Edwina? A tin of my usual, please.’

  Puffing hard, she reached into a cupboard behind the counter. ‘Time you gave up that old pipe of yours before it kills you,’ she scolded. ‘That or the beer. One of them will see you off, you mark my words.’ She slapped a pack of tobacco on the counter. ‘Come on, now. Spill the beans. We’re dying to know about that body in the garden.’

  ‘Aye, well, I wasn’t there, was I?’ the gardener said, with a sharp look at Adam. ‘My day off yesterday, you see. I went to the church, to see the councillor off to his last resting place. Mrs Bishop asked me to that posh affair in the hotel, but affairs like that aren’t for the likes of me – too many bigwigs from the town. I drank a pint or two to toast the councillor’s memory at home with the wife.’

  ‘Well, I
heard,’ Mrs Topsham piled cans of beans in a neat pyramid, ‘the body was Mrs Bishop’s husband.’ Her hands stilled. ‘What do you think about that, then? Mrs Croft told me when she popped in for a bag of sugar, first thing this morning, and she had it from the waitress’s mother.’

  The village grapevine had done its work.

  Adam paid for his dog food and left.

  5

  Painting

  The hesitant tap on Adam’s newly repaired door sent the dog into a spin, galloping past Adam, sliding on the mat and whirling in excited circles in the tiny entrance hall.

  ‘Mrs Bishop,’ Adam nudged the dog aside and ushered his visitor into the sitting room.

  ‘Do you mind?’

  ‘Of course not. Come in, sit down and take it easy.’ Imogen’s eyes, ringed with dark shadows in her pale face, suggested a sleepless night after she finally turned in.

  He left her in the more comfortable of his two armchairs and wrestled with the coffee machine in the tiny kitchen.

  ‘Latte, cappuccino, or something called “macchiato”,’ he asked, sticking his head round the door. ‘Whatever that is. This machine’s new to me. Still, I think the coffee will be better than last night’s stewed tea.’

  Imogen rewarded him with a tense smile.

  Light flooded through windows that reached from floor to ceiling. He’d left the door to the garden open, and the soft spring air filled the room. Outside, the stray dog lapped noisily at a bowl of water.

  Imogen inhaled. ‘Basil?’

  ‘Well spotted. I grow other herbs as well – rosemary, thyme and so on. They’re handy for recipes. But you know that – you’re a gardener.’

  ‘I like to get my hands dirty.’ She held them out for inspection, the nails short, the skin roughened. ‘As you see, I keep forgetting to wear gardening gloves.’

  Imogen broke a short silence.